


Spilled

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir falls and Elrond picks him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilled

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Special thanks to imera for inspiring me when I was down. ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It happens right at the end of the hunt: a warg so large it leaps into the air and knocks Lindir right off his horse, tackling him to the ground. Elrond sees it out the corner of his eye, turns on the spot and sends an arrow right through the foul creature’s skull. It slumps, dead in less than a second, atop Lindir’s trembling form. 

The final cry sounds in the distance, and Elrond’s guards call to him that it was the last. The pack is dead, their bodies heavy about the forest and their blood leaking through the damp grass, slithering away to the stream. Elrond calls, “How many injured?”

A sentinel rides up on his left and replies, “One.” They both see who, and Elrond nods. 

The sentinel takes her horse one step towards Lindir, but Elrond announces, “I will take care of it.” The sentinel instantly retreats, falling into formation with the other riders, and with a flick of Elrond’s hand, another comes to collect Lindir’s horse.

Elrond himself slips off the back of his mount, landing on the hard earth. In three strides, he’s at the feet of his aide, and he grabs the warg by the scruff of its shoulders, wrenching it to the side. It topples, legs over back, off of Lindir’s body, but Lindir stays where he is along the ground. His long hair has splayed out around him, his silver headband knocked asked. His robes are ripped along his shoulder, but his calf is where the biggest gash lies, the fabric cut through to skin. Blood is seeping up, and Elrond instantly sinks to his knees, ripping off his own cloak to press against the wound. 

Lindir hisses in pain as he tries to sit, winces with his whole body, turns his face away and murmurs, “My lord, I did not wish to sully your cloak.”

“And I did not wish to see you hurt this way,” Elrond answers simply. He tears the cloak into a more manageable strip to wrap around Lindir’s leg, lifting it subtly but careful. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

Lindir shakes his head, wincing again as Elrond tightens the binding. It will do for now, and Rivendell isn’t so far away—Elrond knows this will be healed within a few days. Still, it isn’t easy to see Lindir twisted and bleeding, and Elrond can feel the stress of it in him: the unsettled, irksome feeling that the world is no longer _safe_. The wargs are straying too close, and he should never have let Lindir come on the hunt. He’s old enough and skilled, yes, but he isn’t a warrior at heart, and the wild is no place for those with gentle spirits. 

Lindir breathes, ragged and more riddled than any elf has a right to sound, “I’m sorry.” 

Elrond reaches out a hand and softly cups Lindir’s cheek. The skin below his palm is warm—it always is when he touches Lindir. Lindir turns to look at him, eyebrows knit together in the middle and pale lips slightly parted. Elrond’s thumb lightly strokes Lindir’s jaw, offering comfort. He has no medicine with him to take the pain away, but he can feel Lindir relax under his touch, and that will have to be enough. Like soothing a beautiful bird with a broken wing, Elrond hushes, “It’s alright.” Lindir nods his head slowly, careful not to dislodge Elrond’s hand. 

Elrond brushes his fingers through a few fallen strands of brown hair when he pulls his hand away. Then he bends to reach one arm across Lindir’s back, the other below Lindir’s knees. He scoops Lindir into his arms, their armour clinking together in a somber tune. He absorbs Lindir’s weight into his own as he stands, and Lindir leans against him to make it easier. As soon as Elrond insists, “Hold on,” Lindir’s frail arms wrap around his neck. They catch in his hair and hug tight against him, Lindir’s head resting on Elrond’s shoulder. His eyes remain averted, lashes down, but Elrond can still feel the heat off his cheeks. Whether it’s from the misguided notion of thinking himself a burden or the wealth of contact, Elrond doesn’t know. Either way, he holds Lindir securely against his chest as he returns to his horse. 

When they’re next to the saddle, Lindir reaches for the horses’ mane, but Elrond is already fixing his boot into the stirrup. He hikes them both up without the use of his arms, a move that only an elf could make. His other leg swinging gracefully over the horses’ back, and he lands in the saddle with Lindir still cradled in his arms, nestled in Elrond’s lap between the horses’ neck and his front. As Elrond collects his reigns, he checks to see that Lindir is alright. Lindir’s mouth opens, but he says nothing. 

He rests gently against Elrond instead, quiet and relaxed. 

Elrond sets his horse to motion, all the others following, his aide safely held in his arms.


End file.
